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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773684">Dessert and dreams (great nature’s second course)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles'>doomed_spectacles</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cake, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Romantic Fluff, So much kissing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:09:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,086</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26773684</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During lockdown, Crowley sleeps and Aziraphale bakes. When Crowley wakes, he tells Aziraphale his dreams while they break bread together.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"You remember our lunch at the Ritz?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Which one? We've been there many times.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You know which one.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, I do. Did you dream of it?”</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Good Omens Lockdown Ficlets [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1791961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dessert and dreams (great nature’s second course)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is self-indulgent fluff. My writing is usually somewhat arch and I tried not to do that too much here. This is just a <em>teensy</em> bit arch, I think. I hope. There is no conflict, no story, really. Just banter, cakes, memories, dreams, and kisses. Lots of kisses. This one should be read as the last in the series but could stand alone. I’d gently suggest going back to read the first two stories before this one. They’re not long!</p><p>There’s a bit of Sandman, but it’s blink-and-you’ll-miss-it until you get to the footnotes. It's so minor I didn't tag it as a crossover. The only context you need if you haven’t read it is that Morpheus is the King of Dreams, and a weirdo. The siblings referenced are the anthropomorphic representations of Destruction and Desire. Apologies for stuffing Good Omens and Sandman together - not sure how well they blend? Elements and themes are there in tandem, but the tones are discordant. Responsibility and choice and duty, all explored via the Endless as well as Aziraphale and Crowley, but much less funny in the one than the other. Still, it’s a bit of fun to think about them interacting, isn’t it? </p><p>Also, if you spot the Cowboy Bebop in here, come yell at me cuz I want to be friends. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[September 2020]</p><p> </p><p>"Tell me what I missed," Crowley said. He'd spread a blanket on the floor of the bookshop’s cozy backroom and plopped down in a loose sprawl. The back table and several piles of books found themselves gently nudged aside by the will of a demon determined to picnic and an angel determined not to break lockdown rules.</p><p>"Quite a lot, actually," Aziraphale said. He sat cross-legged next to Crowley on the floor. He flexed his fingers a few times and fiddled with the latch on the trunk Crowley had brought with him. "Some very sad events. And a rather, well, perhaps ... hopeful response from around the world. People came together, <em>finally</em>, to rally around those who are marginalized."</p><p>Crowley smiled. His companion sounded wistful. As hopeful as he ever was, but with a tinge of sadness. Crowley didn’t know what he’d missed while he slept, but it had clearly affected Aziraphale in his absence.</p><p>“Yeah?” Crowley asked, keeping his voice soft.</p><p>Aziraphale looked away for a moment. His gaze wasn’t turned towards Heaven, but rather at the windows that looked out on London. He looked out at the human world in all its complexities and smiled a little smile. Crowley wasn’t sure why Aziraphale had taken to baking cakes alone in his bookshop after the end of the world, or why he was gazing out the window at the humanity they’d both chosen to embrace with such feeling. </p><p>But it didn’t matter, because his companion in this experiment of Hers would let him in, eventually. Crowley could wait.</p><p>“Yes,” Aziraphale said, finally. He shook himself out of his reverie and regarded the trunk. The steamer-style luggage had a leather top and shiny brass fastener. It was simply the first thing Crowley had thought of when conjuring a way to transport the treats Aziraphale had gifted him from his flat to the bookshop. It wasn’t far, but Aziraphale had baked the goods inside himself over the last few months while Crowley slept. They were precious. The trunk’s lid was lined in a tartan pattern. When he saw it, Aziraphale smiled a little smile but mercifully didn’t comment. Inside, the treats he had made were stacked in neat piles. Though he had baked the goods himself, Aziraphale eyed the feast with anticipation. </p><p>Aziraphale picked out a few boxes while Crowley watched, setting them in front of his neatly crossed legs. Aziraphale rubbed his hands together, a sparkle in his eye. He raised his eyebrows, a silent question in the air. <em>Ready to begin?</em></p><p>Crowley nodded. He snapped to summon champagne and flutes from inside the trunk. The bottom appeared much further down than the laws of physics might suggest was possible. Physics, after all, was just a suggestion. Crowley poured two glasses and passed one to Aziraphale.</p><p>“And what about you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, taking a sip of champagne. “Any noteworthy dreams? Messages from Lord Morpheus we should heed?”</p><p>“Nah.” Crowley made a face. “<em>That</em> guy. Try to avoid him if I can. Bit of a weirdo, that one.” Crowley concentrated for a second with his eyes closed. The treats in the trunk found themselves arranged on plates and spread out on the blanket between them. Crowley and Aziraphale sat facing each other, surrounded by cakes, pies, biscuits, scones, and loaves of bread.</p><p>Aziraphale gave him a pleased smile and Crowley felt a familiar rush of satisfaction. The way he felt for having pleased Aziraphale was no different than it had been for millennia, but what came after was unknown. He’d woken from his months-long dreams to a future that included the angel without the dread that had dogged him since he slithered up to make some trouble in a brand new world.</p><p>Conflicting expressions flitted across Aziraphale’s face as he tried to choose which plate to sample from. Crowley smiled, then picked up the thread of their conversation. </p><p>“Yeah, no appearances from Sir Spooky-Dream-Face, luckily,” Crowley said. “Had a bit of fun with his brother once in the early days, though.”</p><p>“Which one?”</p><p>
  <a id="return1" name="return1"></a>
</p><p>“The one with the beard and the axe. Before he fucked off to who-knows-where.” <sup><a href="#note1">[1]</a></sup> Crowley took a bite of mince pie and tried not to grimace at the memory, lest Aziraphale think he was reacting to the pastry crust.</p><p>
  <a id="return2" name="return2"></a>
</p><p>“Oh,” Aziraphale said, with a bit of flush to his cheeks and a furtive glance away. Crowley couldn’t tell if it was due to the champagne, or something else but he let it be. <sup><a href="#note2">[2]</a></sup></p><p>Crowley took another bite of mince pie and the bright flavor of spices exploded in his mouth. Instantly he was taken back to Christmas, 1853. They’d walked, bundled against the bitter cold, occasionally bumping arms while listening to carollers reveling in decorated thresholds. Gas lamps brightened the dark winter’s night. The taste of roasted meats and pudding chased by sloe gin on their breath. Crowley closed his eyes, remembering how Aziraphale’s cheeks had grown rosy with drink and a biting wind. How they’d teased one another, letting their familiar rivalry grow into a fondness inextricably linked to the enjoyment of human delicacies.</p><p>“This is…” he trailed off, unsure how to express what he felt, overcome by memories brought on by a bite of pie.</p><p>“I know,” Aziraphale said, smiling in return. </p><p>Crowley cleared his throat. “Dreams. Right, yeah. Just the usual sort. Nightmares, terrors, head-goblins. Par for the course, really,” he said.</p><p>Aziraphale made a soft, pitying sound. He bit into a bran muffin, then made a face and tactfully set it aside. He selected a macaron from a colorful stack next. When Aziraphale took a bite of the bright pink confection, buttercream frosting spilled out onto his lips. Crowley’s world narrowed to encompass only those soft, plump lips and the sounds he made. He licked the frosting from his lips and shivers ran straight down Crowley’s spine from head to toe.</p><p>Crowley stumbled over the start of a half dozen words, not sure why he was still even talking, but Aziraphale just gazed at him with a happy smile.</p><p>“Yeah, scary nightmares. You know, like,” he said, “really important presentations to the Dark Council. Only halfway through, I realize I've got no trousers on.” Crowley scrunched his face as he talked, grateful to have a distraction from the obscene sight of Aziraphale eating pastries. He rambled, recounting several variations on this dream he’d had during his months-long nap.</p><p>Aziraphale chuckled with his mouth now full of crumb cake. When he smiled, champagne wasn’t the only thing fizzing in Crowley’s head. Old feelings bubbled to the surface, swirling in a heady mix of sugar, alcohol, and golden evening sunshine. He struggled not to tamp those feelings down, as he had done for so long. Crowley let his affection for Aziraphale bubble to the surface and remain, undisturbed.</p><p>“Encountered an endless staircase I had to climb before realizing I wasn't going anywhere. Met up with an obnoxious little frog on the way up.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, around a bite of key lime pie.</p><p>“An algebra test I wasn't prepared for.” Crowley set aside the pie. He didn’t choose another treat to sample, settling for watching Aziraphale and recounting dreams instead. The light outside the bookshop’s windows waned as they talked. Only the soft light of very old lamps remained. It felt to Crowley like a bubble. Like the days before electric light, when he’d watch Aziraphale eat and drink wine under a flickering flame.</p><p>“Algebra?”</p><p>“Yeah, not sure where that one came from,” Crowley said. His mind wandered up and down their shared past. As Aziraphale ate delicacies both new and old, his dreams and memories collided. “I had nothing to do with algebra. Took credit for trigonometry, though.” </p><p>Crowley took another sip of champagne, enjoying the tart snap of it on his tongue. He watched Aziraphale happily sampling his own homemade baked goods. The angel took little bites and then wordlessly evaluated each, making satisfied, happy noises, and acting as if Crowley had brought him pastries from the finest patisseries across the world.</p><p>Crowley watched. He'd watched Aziraphale take pleasure in the sensual delights of the earth many times before, but this was different. They'd orbited each other, growing closer as the failed Armageddon grew further behind them, until everyone on Earth was forced to take a six-month pause. He'd had no idea what he'd wake to when saying goodnight to Aziraphale, but sitting on a picnic blanket sharing dreams seemed exactly right.</p><p>So of course he said what could’ve been exactly the wrong thing next.</p><p>“Dreamed about some, uh, intimate encounters," he said, looking away but knowing Aziraphale would see the flush on his face anyway.</p><p>"Encounters?" Aziraphale said, his voice rising at the end of the word. He’d kept his face neutral but the twinkle in his eyes gave away his amusement.</p><p>“Not telling you about those," Crowley said, taking a sip of champagne to hide his expression, since he’d discarded his glasses before setting out the picnic spread.</p><p>"Of course." If he didn't know Aziraphale, he'd have said the reply was demure. Knowing Aziraphale, it was a tease. They drank champagne and held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Faintly in the background, a very old grandfather clock chimed half seven. Neither moved. Crowley’s face wanted to break into a smile and slowly, he found himself letting it.</p><p>“Did you try the mochi ice cream?” Aziraphale asked abruptly.</p><p>“Oh, ahh, it melted. Sorry.”</p><p>“That’s all right. I still have some rice flour downstairs somewhere. Maybe I’ll make it again.” Aziraphale tore off a piece of oily naan bread. He ate it, then licked the grease from his fingers. Crowley wondered, not for the first time, if he was teasing Crowley on purpose.</p><p>“That’d be nice,” Crowley said. Aziraphale set aside the bread and smiled the kind of smile that made Crowley want to stop time and live forever in it. Instead of <em>I love you</em>, he said, “I like mochi.”</p><p>“I know you do.”</p><p>Crowley swallowed. There was so much between them. So many years. He felt them all, filling the air around them. He breathed in their history, inhaling the mismatched scents of pastries and savory pies, breads and loaves. “Do you remember when we met up in Edo?”</p><p>Aziraphale murmured in agreement.</p><p>With memories and champagne in his blood, Crowley felt bold. “You looked good in a hakama, you know.”</p><p>The giggle that erupted from Aziraphale’s throat was so full of joy. Crowley wanted to bottle it. Wanted to drink from it every day to remember what it felt like. He could feel his own face aching with smiles.</p><p>“We drank plum wine all night, didn’t we?” Crowley said. He snorted, remembering. Aziraphale had been draped in folds of white and blue cloth, with an obi elegantly tied in the fashion of the Emperor’s court. His haori had been cream-colored, over deep blue hakama that took Crowley’s breath away when he spotted him over the curve of his fan. “The guards chased us out when they saw your white hair. Weren’t too fond of foreigners at the time, if I recall.”</p><p>
  <a id="return3" name="return3"></a>
</p><p>“That’s not how I remember it at all!” <sup><a href="#note3">[3]</a></sup></p><p>Crowley shrugged. They wore matching smiles and again met each other’s gaze. This time, the silence was alive with anticipation. Memories and dreams layered on top of feelings, uncorked and allowed to breathe.</p><p>“Should we toast?” Aziraphale asked, though his flute was empty.</p><p>Crowley snapped his fingers and the bottle he’d poured found itself miraculously full again. He poured for Aziraphale, then himself. “A toast,” he said, holding out his glass.</p><p>“To what shall we toast, my dear?” Aziraphale scooted closer on the blanket, lifting his glass in the air but not yet touching it to Crowley’s. He nudged aside a slice of cheesecake on a rose-bordered china plate with his foot to make room.</p><p>“Let's see, the world didn't end," Crowley said, searching Aziraphale's face for any hint of misgiving before he inched closer, till there was barely a gap between them. He could smell Aziraphale’s cologne and it was the scent of home. "That’s always a good option.”</p><p>“That was over a year ago, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with enough of a pout to make Crowley immediately change tactics.</p><p>“Okay, yeah. Well, we're doing the picnic thing?” Crowley held his glass steady. Ready. Waiting.</p><p>“Yes, and it's lovely but has been on the books for fifty-three years.”</p><p>“Mmmm, something new, then,” Crowley said, grasping. “Did lockdown end?”</p><p>Creases appeared on Aziraphale’s forehead that Crowley longed to smoothe. “Well no, I think there's pods now…”</p><p>“That's dolphins.”</p><p>“No- you were, it's- never mind.” Aziraphale shook his head, then settled. He took a deep breath, then said, “To having dreams, and waking from them.”</p><p>Crowley took a breath of his own. “To baking bread, and breaking it together.”</p><p>He didn’t touch his glass to Aziraphale’s. They didn’t toast. Instead, they kissed. It was fireworks on New Year's Day. It was the first fizzy gulp of cold beer on a hot day. It was a thunderstorm in the desert bringing rain to thirsty lands. When Crowley kissed Aziraphale, he asked the last, most important question.</p><p>When he pulled back, Crowley said, “Is this what you meant?” He ran his thumb over Aziraphale’s lips and watched as the angel’s eyes fluttered closed. “You said you wanted to move on. With our lives.” </p><p>Crowley kept his voice soft, afraid to break the most precious gift he’d been given in his very long life. “Is this what you meant?”</p><p>Aziraphale opened his eyes. When he smiled, Crowley knew love. He felt years of doubt being washed away by one moment. Joy was written in Aziraphale’s dimpled cheeks. Desire shone through his glittering eyes. Acceptance performed in the way his body leaned towards Crowley. Aziraphale’s smile was not only an invitation, six thousand years after that first encounter on a wall. It was coming home.</p><p>"It’s certainly a start."</p><p>Crowley lost track of time and count of kisses after that. Aziraphale tasted like cake and joy. He sampled kisses like Aziraphale had sampled the pastries spread out around them. Crowley touched his lips to Aziraphale’s lightly, teasing and pulling away. He kissed Aziraphale deeply, sealing their mouths together in a promise he’d never break. They kissed in every way they could think of, delighting in the ability to, simply, after all these years, kiss.</p><p>Without breaking contact, they shifted together so that Aziraphale was settled on the picnic blanket, with Crowley hovering, weightless with joy, above him. Crowley lifted a hand to snap a pillow into existence under Aziraphale's head. </p><p>Crowley let out an amazed breath. He tried not to let himself think about the years he'd longed for this. He forbade his body from remembering all the dreams he'd endured, both pleasure-filled and empty. </p><p>He kissed Aziraphale again, setting his hand down next to his head, bracing himself.</p><p>"Umm," Crowley said. He pulled back, hand full of cheesecake. "Whoops." </p><p>He pressed his fingers together in a snap, but before he could set a miracle in motion, Aziraphale grabbed his wrist. Crowley watched, astonished, as Aziraphale licked the frosting from his fingers.</p><p>When he’d licked Crowley’s fingers clean, Aziraphale licked his lips. His eyes had never left Crowley’s. “Waste not, want not, my dear.”</p><p>All that escaped from Crowley’s mouth was, “Ngk.” He snapped to banish the pastries back inside the trunk. With all the goodies inside safely, it snapped shut. And since it knew how important those treats were to Aziraphale, and hence Crowley, it made itself the proper temperature for all its contents. Crowley nodded, snapped again to make several more pillows appear around Aziraphale, then captured Aziraphale’s mouth in a kiss that tasted like cheesecake.</p><p>Many kisses later, Aziraphale said, “Tell me another dream.”</p><p>He lay back against his cushions and waited. He folded his plump hands across his middle and twitched his feet, still encased in those stuffy brown Oxfords. He looked well-kissed and impossibly happy.</p><p>“Mmm," Crowley said, his voice a low rumble. He poked an elbow into the velvet pillow under him and rested his head in his hand. "You remember our lunch at the Ritz?”</p><p>“Which one? We've been there many times.”</p><p>“You know which one.”</p><p>“Yes, I do. Did you dream of it?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice thick. He took one of Aziraphale’s hands in his own, marveling at the fact that he was allowed to do so.</p><p>“And?” Aziraphale turned his hand over, holding Crowley’s and smiling.</p><p>“In my dream, we were at the Ritz.” Crowley shifted closer, holding Aziraphale’s hand tightly and gazing into his eyes.</p><p>“Yes,” Aziraphale said, a little breathless. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes gleamed satisfaction.</p><p>“We had champagne.” Crowley brought their joined hands to his lips. He kissed each one of Aziraphale’s knuckles gently.</p><p>“Yes," Aziraphale breathed, his voice barely a whisper.</p><p>“You had cake. And you called me nice.”</p><p>“You are nice.” Aziraphale’s eyes had turned deep green and focused on his mouth. He tilted his head up and leaned towards Crowley. Their lips were barely a breath apart.</p><p>“Mmm,” Crowley said, "but the thing was-”</p><p>“Yes?” Aziraphale whispered. His eyes fluttered closed.</p><p>“You were a giant spider,” Crowley said. “Had way too many eyes.” He grinned at the put-upon look on Aziraphale’s face. “The waiter was a cockroach and you ate him when he brought you the wrong fork.”</p><p>Aziraphale pouted and it provoked the same sparkling feeling in Crowley’s chest it had since he’d first seen it thousands of years ago. He’d spent centuries plotting ways to put that pout on his rival’s face.</p><p>“But I had several versions of the Ritz lunch dream. Was asleep for a while, you know.” Crowley pressed a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek, almost giving him what he so clearly wanted. He kissed Aziraphale’s jaw, then his ear, then down his neck to where his neck disappeared into layers of very old clothing.</p><p>“And was I generally an arachnid?” Aziraphale said, not needing to say out loud that he was getting tired of Crowley’s teasing and would very much like to get to the point, please.</p><p>“Nah.”</p><p>“Tell me about the <em>best</em> version.”</p><p>
  <a id="return4" name="return4"></a>
</p><p>"In the best version," Crowley said, "instead of listening to you prattle on about American television preachers, I did <em>this</em>." He kissed Aziraphale deeply, sighing into it as every single dream he’d ever had came true. <sup><a href="#note4">[4]</a></sup></p><p>"And? Was it like that?"</p><p>"Nah. The real thing is better.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a><sup>1</sup>Crowley’s “bit of fun” with Destruction had left a small village in Cornwall flattened, its human inhabitants miraculously transported several towns over (unharmed but very confused and severely inconvenienced). All the cows in the surrounding fields had been painted blue and every drop of alcohol in an eight-kilometer radius had completely disappeared. After sobering up, Crowley sheepishly took a commendation from Hell and a long nap. When he woke, he was quite relieved to learn of Destruction’s resignation from his duties. <sup>[<a href="#return1">return to text</a>]</sup></p><p><a id="note2" name="note2"></a><sup>2</sup> Aziraphale had also had “a bit of fun” with one of Morpheus’s siblings, but not the one Crowley was referring to. Desire, seeking a bit of mischief, thought it would be fun to fan the flame of desire in an angel. (And if doing so rankled their older brother, so much the better.) When they encountered Aziraphale reclining in the tepidarium at the Baths of Trajan, they realized they'd made a grave mistake picking this particular angel, for the number of desires already coursing through him came as quite a shock to the heretofore un-shockable Endless. <sup>[<a href="#return2">return to text</a>]</sup></p><p><a id="note3" name="note3"></a><sup>3</sup> Neither is correct. They drank shochu while perched on the high wall overlooking the Imperial Palace, talking and laughing until the sun rose over Edo. They were so drunk, in fact, that after a particularly bad joke of Crowley’s, both fell over onto the elaborately manicured grass of the gardens below. The Emperor’s guards, rightfully spooked by a man with white hair rolling on the ground laughing at a man with yellow eyes, gently helped them up and escorted them off the property. <sup>[<a href="#return3">return to text</a>]</sup></p><p><a id="note4" name="note4"></a><sup>4</sup> Crowley didn't have anything to do with American TV preachers. Or mega-churches. Or the incestuous relationship between them and the politicians who needed their support and thus would never dream of doing anything to lose that support, such as take away their tax-exempt status. Nor was he surprised in any way that they flourished the way they did. To Crowley, who'd lived through the construction of breathtakingly beautiful cathedrals for thousands of years by exploiting the labor of the underclasses, mega-churches were simply the most American way of doing what so many others had done before. The thing that surprised him was the spray tans. Why American mega preachers used such heavy bronzer was a mystery he preferred not to contemplate. <sup>[<a href="#return4">return to text</a>]</sup></p><p>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/doomed-spectacles">come say hi on tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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